


Epiphany

by onstraysod



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Prompt Fill, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 19:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18453128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/pseuds/onstraysod
Summary: John Irving has taken the young bereaved sailor under his wing, never expecting that the fires of Carnivale will lead to a revelation.





	Epiphany

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt sent to me by pottedmusic - thank you for requesting something for this rarest of rare pairs!

He had need of penance.

Tempted by the spirit of the evening, he had accepted one drink for the sake of conviviality. Then Fitzjames had approached the officers, urging them to join in the festivities and set the men at ease by their example. Knowing that nothing would induce Little to take the stage on _Terror_ ’s behalf, Irving had accepted a second drink, then a third, perhaps even a fourth - he couldn’t quite remember. Not for the pleasure of alcohol, but for its medicinal effect: liquid courage steeling him to perform. He’d ascended the makeshift platform, yet another drink in his hand (for good measure), swaying side to side in rhythm with the melody of his song, his mind feeling as light as a child’s kite lifted over the treetops on a springtime breeze.

It was still floating, untethered to reality, when the fire began to spread.

Now, standing outside the smoking remnants of the carnivale tent, shocked into sobriety by the frigid air, Irving chastised himself for the slowness of his reaction, the leaden weight that sat upon his reflexes, that moved him only when the crowd shoved him bodily before its mass. The dullness of mind that had rendered him next to worthless in the crisis shamed him, as did the sick, primal fear that uncoiled in his stomach, making him cling to his own survival no matter the cost.

But most of all, Irving repented for having lost sight of Hartnell in the chaos.

After the death of John Hartnell, Crozier had come to Irving’s cabin one evening and begged a favor. He had asked Irving to put his Christian compassion to use and become a mentor to Hartnell’s young, bereaved brother, to comfort him with the wisdom of the Gospels or the simple solace of a listening ear. Irving had jumped at the chance to reward the captain’s faith in him and had approached Hartnell that very night, offering to pray with him. With some wary hesitation, Hartnell had accepted, but his demeanor had warmed considerably when Irving encouraged him to talk about his brother. They had sat together in a corner of the fo’castle for nearly an hour, Irving listening and smiling as Hartnell reminisced about their childhood adventures in Manchester, and when the hour came for the men to take to their hammocks, Hartnell had thanked him, warmly shaking Irving’s hand.

“May I ask you something, sir?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think-- Well, it’s just I’ve always wondered. Do you believe God can forgive anything, sir? If a person truly repents?”

Irving had drawn a deep breath, his chest swelling with pride. Nothing pleased him more than when one of the sailors showed signs of moving closer to the Lord.

“I do. Most assuredly. Repent in your heart and mind, ask God for His mercy, and you shall receive it.”

The answer had seemed to satisfy Hartnell, and from that day forward Irving made sure to seek out the young sailor for a few moments of conversation and encouragement, brief interludes that gradually lengthened into hour-long discussions, held sometimes in the gunroom when it was not being used by the warrant officers, sometimes in the relative privacy of Irving’s cabin. He had tried, at first, to steer their conversations ever in the direction of holy matters, to points of Scripture and evangelical tenets: but he soon gave up the effort. Hartnell’s earnest, lively talk engaged Irving, so much so that he let their conversations wander far afield, to touch on matters of seamanship and even his time in Australia. He found Hartnell quick-witted and naturally clever, though his schooling had been limited in scope and duration, and Irving began to loan him books on theology and sailing, encouraging him to make a note of any questions he might have so they could study the issue together later on. Months passed, and like the sun slowly inching its way toward the northern horizon, his eagerness - his need - for each day’s encounter with Hartnell crept up on Irving incrementally, stealing into his subconscious and taking root before he could recognize the danger.

What conscious thoughts he had, he brushed aside. The comparison he’d made between the first blush of a new-blown rose and the ruddy color that the cold brought to Hartnell’s cheeks seemed innocent enough, a recognition of correspondences in God’s creation. Like the golden shade of Hartnell’s hair, that reminded him of sunshine warming a field of winter wheat, or the cornflower blue of Hartnell’s eyes, the way they sparkled when he laughed like beads of dew. When he caught himself musing on Hartnell’s fine hands or lopsided smile, he remembered there was no error in celebrating the perfection with which God had shaped even the smallest details.

Irving did not think he had deceived himself, either, by perceiving an answering happiness in Hartnell whenever they met. By the time of Fitzjames’s carnivale, their relationship had progressed so congenially that Irving had begun to think of himself as Hartnell’s guardian angel, keeping the young sailor tucked protectively beneath a sheltering wing.

Then came the fire.

Stupefied by alcohol and shock, it took several minutes of standing in the numbing chill outside the fiery tent for Irving to remember Hartnell. When he did, he felt as sharp a pain as if God himself had hurled a thunderbolt straight through his chest. Doubling over, retching smoke in lieu of the bile that rose to lodge itself in his throat, Irving gasped great draughts of icy air and, gripped by panic, began to run through the huddles of shivering, costumed men, the wings on his back battered and twisted as he rammed his way past body after body, gazing into countless soot-stained faces. With each wondering stare he was met with, Irving’s fear increased threefold, until the breath was tearing in and out of his lungs in loud, ragged gasps.

“Lieutenant Irving?”

A hand reached out and grasped his arm, and turning, Irving saw Tom Hartnell, whole and uninjured. In the adrenaline rush of his relief, Irving cupped Tom’s face in both hands, spluttering as he attempted to speak through his smile.

“You’re alright. You’re alright, thank God!” And he pulled the young man into a tight embrace. “I was so frightened…”

Hartnell’s hands were motionless on Irving’s shoulders for a moment, until they moved and grasped hard at his back. His face turned against Irving’s jaw, his breath tickling hot as his lips moved. “I’m sorry. I should have sought you out sooner…”

“No. No, you have nothing to reproach yourself for.” Pulling back, Irving held Tom by both arms, staring at him, his mouth pulled into so tight a smile he feared his frozen cheeks might crack. “Tom,” he murmured, not realizing that he was using Hartnell’s Christian name for the first time. “I’m so relieved to see you.” He touched the young sailor’s cheek again, the edge of his thumb passing accidentally over the corner of Tom’s lips. The younger man stared at Irving, mouth opening on a word he hesitated to give voice to.

“You–” Hartnell spoke haltingly, and faltered. Like Moses before the burning bush, his wide eyes were filled with the light of the flames that leapt still in the distance behind them.

Before he could think to ask Hartnell what he’d wanted to say, Irving was found by Little and Hodgson and pulled away to help the captain take roll of the men. His heart was light despite the horror around him, the flames ebbing out as the last of their fuel was consumed, the blackened spars and charred bodies stark against the field of snow. His swift repentance had been rewarded, the prayers of his pounding heart answered.

It was hours before Irving was able to return to Terror. In the privacy of his cabin he stripped down to his trousers, broke the ice in his washbasin, and dipped a cloth into the water. Despite the chill, he ran the cloth over chest and arms and shoulders, gradually washing away the stench of the smoke, the guilt of his weakness.

The door slid open without a warning knock and Irving turned around to issue an angry rebuke. It died on his tongue at the sight of Hartnell, drawing the door closed again at his back. The young man stood for a moment just past the threshold, his mouth moving slightly as if contesting with some internal inquisitor. Then he crossed the few feet separating them without a word, took Irving’s face in his hands, and kissed him deeply with a mouth as warm and wet as the Red Sea.

“I don’t ask your pardon,” Tom whispered against Irving’s lips, blue eyes fixed on the lieutenant’s from mere centimeters away. “I don’t ask for God’s. Don’t tell me I need to. Nothing that feels this good could possibly be a sin.”

Irving didn’t move, barely breathed. He stood on the edge of a private precipice and felt his heart pound like storm-tossed surf. Backing a step away, Hartnell gripped the bottom of his jumper together with the hem of the shirt beneath it, and pulled both garments up and off his head. Irving’s gaze swept over the other man’s bare chest as if it were a landscape in a dream.

Drawing close again, Hartnell placed one hand softly on Irving’s cheek, the other on the inside edge of his left pectoral, just over the place where his heart fluttered in some heady limbo between fear and euphoria. The sailor’s tender lips were parted, glistening wet, his breath pulsing out warm to brush Irving’s skin: a benediction. His fingers moved of their own accord, skating over the hills of the younger man’s biceps, over his shoulders to skim down his back, marvels of God’s design. Mouths slotted together and chests touched, and the feel of Tom Hartnell’s flesh against his resounded physically through Irving’s brain like trumpets of glory blown at the gates of Heaven.

He called out to God, but not for forgiveness. It was a song of praise.


End file.
